This is the account of the change of my life, the empowerment of a solitary man. It documents my journey from a chilly tent in the woods to the present and where I want to be, and why. These events are the pivital moments, the crucible that had formed me.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

slabbishness

In early fall, I had a plastering party. The straw walls were stacked and pinned, the lathe around the windows stapled in and clay was in order.When you build a straw-bale structure, the wall gains its strength from the combination of the straw and the plaster, creating a stressed skin panel that is incredibly fire resistant and well insulated. After the wall is stacked, metal lathe is stapled around the window frames (areas around windows and doors are the most likely to crack the plaster so you want to reinforce these areas). The plaster was a mix of masonry sand and red Missouri clay, dug up during the excavation of the septic system. We mixed it in a little pit made from four straw bales and a tarp. We would put water in the pit, throw in the sand and clay and, wearing wading boots, do the stompin’ boogie! After fifteen minutes or so of jigging on the plaster it was the right consistency and we carried it in buckets to the wall and hand applied it. If you have never worked with clay plaster I can tell you it is positively therapeutic. Aside from the few times when, in a fit of exuberance, I pressed a wet glob of plaster into the wall and impaled the end of my finger on the loose end of the wire lathe. That is one of those experiences that drills itself into ones memory. You are leaning into the plaster, enjoying the feel as it sensuously smooshes between the fingers and curls between the knuckles, moist and cool, and then BAM! A sliver of galvanized steel eases into the end of the finger. You feel the slight pressure as it curiously probes the skin, then the slight pop as it breaks through and explores places it has no business being, like a galvanized raping of the finger tip. Right about then the profanities begin to flow like a mighty river and one looks around to be sure the youngsters aren’t within earshot, though they invariably are.We only got one wall plastered that day. It was a good job we did, and I am happy to say the plaster is holding up surprisingly well after four years, though the final lime coat never managed to get onto it.The plumbing for the drain side was next on the agenda. I installed schedule 40 PVC throughout the house under the slab and roughed in a bathroom, a utility room with a washing machine hookup and a small kitchen drain. Once the pipe was in I began the process of bringing in the ½ minus gravel to bring the floor up to a level appropriate to pour the slab. I brought some in by Bobcat but most was brought in via wheelbarrow. I shoveled it in and wheeled it down to the cabin (the truck could only dump it some fifty feet from the building site) and, in eight inch lifts, brought it up to level. At each eight inches I tamped it by hand to eliminate settling. It took some two weeks of solid nights and weekends to get it ready to pour the slab. The home was built on a slope so the rear corner had to be brought up nearly four feet. After much sweat, blood and tedium, it was ready to pour.

We Pour The SlabLet me preface this by saying that I fully understand that anyone with half a brain would have roughed in the plumbing first and poured the slab before anything else. I, it would seem, was working with 43.5% cranial activity and failed to do so. If bought sense is better than borrowed, I have a seriously large stock of high octane good advice, let me tell you. I calculated at 4 ½ yards of concrete for the small slab, a pretty accurate figure, if I say so myself. The truck arrived and my Dad and father-in-law were there to help. Pop-in-law brought along a four foot float (he can pull obscure tools from anywhere, it’s quite amazing), and my Dad, well, he had good intentions. We began the fun and, right off the bat, a wheelbarrow load of concrete bound for the back of the slab overturned. My Father-in-law, Bill, lost control of it. He is diabetic and had helped me more often than I care to remember and felt terrible about the incident. I rallied the troops and kept it moving, after all, we’d need concrete there eventually anyways. I had instructed the redi-mix company to include an additive to make it set up faster, a precaution against the cold temperatures. As it would happen, the temperatures were unseasonably warm that day and the concrete was taking the express train to Set-Ups-Ville. We got it all in there and I began trying to float it off. We got it pretty smooth in the back and I was working the float and trying to outrun the laws of physics and chemistry when I turned around and saw my Dad. He was standing there with a pool trowel, bent over and kinda pawing at the concrete with it, all the while screwing up everything he was doing with his boots as he stomped around. It looked like a muddy cow pasture in a monochromatic gray. At this point I shooed him out and went to work with a mag. The concrete was setting up like a cat at a mouse carnival and I now had to just get it as smooth as I could before it was a permanent lava field. Working on two foam pads, I crawled around and smoothed the slab as best I could. In the end, it looked alright, but a marble rolled across it would look like an Irishman on a bender. The day at an end, I toasted the progress, hoped to God it wasn’t as unlevel as I suspected (It was worse) and called it a success!